


Forbidden

by Citrine (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Desperation, Established Relationship, Gay Sex, M/M, Omorashi, Romance, Squicky sex, Victorian, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-04 00:03:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1074630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Citrine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes and Watson have been lovers for over a year and the desperation games they've played have pushed him to the limits of his endurance, but for Holmes there's always one more challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forbidden

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to 'Nocturne' (http://archiveofourown.org/works/582641) although it can easily be read as a stand alone.
> 
> However, exactly the same warnings apply.
> 
> WARNING: This story contains extreme and prolonged pee desperation, as well as characters (Holmes & Watson) being sexually aroused by peeing/desperation and some slightly squicky bits. If you find that distasteful please don't read it, if you do read it I hope you like it. 
> 
> Not beta read so apologies for any errors.

Forbidden. Interdict. Verboten, Interdictum.

_I need to urinate._

My bladder, swollen and ignored, reminds me that I  have to find a lavatory immediately.  It can’t comprehend that I’m not allowed to go;  that urination is strictly forbidden.  Nor do the people around us have any inkling of my predicament.  I have taken great pains not to draw attention to myself, but it is getting harder to sit still at the dining table.   My legs are crossed beneath the snowy white tablecloth and I clench my thigh muscles, which helps a little.

“This turbot is delicious.” Watson waves a silver fork at my almost untouched plate. “Do eat up, Holmes.”

“I’m not hungry,” I say tersely.

“Nonsense, you barely nibbled at your starter.”  He reaches for the water carafe. “At least have another drink.”  Watson pours the water slowly, so that it tinkles into the glass.  “There you are.”

“I’m not going to go,” I hiss at him.

Watson’s eyebrows go up into his hairline. “I should think not, a public restaurant is hardly the appropriate place. I’m certainly not going to give you permission to do it here.”

The words _do it here_ isolate themselves in my mind triggering another pulse of urgency.   The hands on the bronze wall clock stand at seven-forty and I haven’t passed a single drop of urine for nearly twelve and a half hours.  That thought causes another bolt of need to shoot through my bladder.  I wince and grip the edge of the table with my right hand.

Watson pushes the brimming glass towards me. “Drink it.”

“No.”

“What difference will it make if you’re not going to go?” asks Watson, gently mocking but with desire and affection in his lovely brown eyes.

I find myself smiling back at him and I lower my gaze quickly knowing that one man should not bestow that look upon another in a public place.  The humiliation of a stream of urine might be passed off as accident or illness, but any revelation of our love would destroy us completely.  My gaze rests upon that tormenting glass.  I raise it to Watson and down the water in two quick gulps.

“Now eat,” says Watson. “It’ll go through you quicker if you don’t.”

I glare at him, irritated by the trick and by the knowledge that he’s quite correct.  I knuckle down when the main course arrives, making a good show of beef collops in a thick stock.  The desert course defeats me.  I’ve never cared for sweet things and nearly another hour has passed.  My urgency has grown with every tick of the clock _.  I must urinate. It just isn’t possible for me to sit here much longer._   Not without my compelling need becoming obvious because it’s already taking a superhuman effort not to fidget.  I uncross my legs and hastily cross them again. My bladder is attuned to the tiniest hint that it might be permitted to void and it sends a wave of pressure through my abdomen.

“Are you all right, old chap?” asks Watson.

My beloved tormentor knows that I am far from all right and he chuckles when I insist that I am. Needless to say I regret that moment of wilful pride when he takes his time over brandy and cigars.  Stubbornly I keep my thighs pressed together and my mouth resolutely closed. I will not ask him to hurry, not if my life depended on it _.  Oh God, come on, Watson, I have to urinate._  I’m starting to fear that I will make an exhibition of myself if he doesn’t move very soon.  I wriggle involuntarily in my seat. 

“I’ll ask for the bill,” says Watson, “but they’re devilish busy tonight so it may take a while to arrive.”

“Tell them you have an appointment,” I snap.  _If they don’t get a move on they’ll have a puddle on the floor._ I’m wearing my thickest black trousers with two pairs of flannel drawers underneath, enough to conceal any small leaks, but they won’t absorb a flood. 

Watson does just that and he settles the bill quickly. He must realise that I’m reaching the limits of my endurance.  “Now,” he says, “let’s get you out of here while you can still stand up.”

 _Oh lord, what if I can’t?_ I force myself to take deep calming breaths before I rise slowly to my feet.  Everything moves inside me, pressing down, a weight of water battering against my sphincter.  My hand twitches and I fight the urge to thrust it between my legs.

Watson looks concerned. “Can you -”

“Yes,” I growl.

Somehow I endure the walk to the cloakroom and the wait for our coats and hats.  Then we step out into the dark, but bustling street _.   I can’t go. I mustn’t go. There are too many people about._

Watson takes my arm. “We’ll find a cab and be home in a jiffy.”

I’m starting to think that may not be soon enough. It hurts to walk and when I take another step a powerful spasm makes me gasp and despair.  “I didn’t realise…” I whisper. “Oh lord,  I’m too desperate.  Find me an alley, Watson.”

Watson shakes his head denying me any relief. “You can go when we get home and think yourself lucky that I’m not making you walk back to Baker Street.”

“I can’t wait!”  A fierce wave of desperation sweeps over me and the first few drops leak into my underwear. “I’m starting to go.”

“Hold it!” snarls Watson. His eyes are brilliant with lust in the lamplight. “Don’t you dare go.”

I try frantically to keep control of myself, but seconds later more urine trickles out . “I can’t hold it.”  The wetness is spreading across my undergarments. “Oh God, I’m going in the street.”

Watson realises that the game is up.  He looks around, desperately seeking a hiding place.  “Over there.”  He grabs my arm and the jolting movement releases a further stream of urine.  All decency forgotten I ram my hand between my legs as an unlit passageway opens up before us, but nothing is going to stop it now.  The alley smells of rotten vegetables and stale urine.  Five yards from the street I pull away from Watson and turn to face the wall.  _Oh dear God,  I’m wetting myself._ “Watson…”

“I’m here.” He wraps his strong arms around me from behind, but he doesn’t attempt to unbutton my trousers.  It is far too late for that, my urine is pouring through the layers of cloth and raining down onto the cobbles.  I whimper, not even trying to halt the flow.  It is the most wonderful feeling and I rest my forehead on my folded arm, biting my coat sleeve to stifle my cries of relief.

My unexpected loss of control coupled with the realisation that this could so easily have happened in the restaurant arouses us both.  Watson keeps one arm securely around my chest  and grips my drenched groin with the other.  He ruts against my back, massaging me through  my ruined clothing as he groans and shudders. It is the most decadent and dangerous thing we have ever done, but fortunately orgasm claims us quickly.

We stagger apart and gaze at each other, sheepish and sated, in the few moments before awareness of our peril creeps in and with it a modicum of common-sense.  The shadows conceal our presence and my shame until there is a break in the crowd, then we slip out of the alley and walk home.

*

My first attempt at the impossible fails after twenty-two hours and forty minutes when I urinate helplessly all over the stone floor of the Welsh cottage.  Watson comforts me and insists that we can try again in a few days.

“There’s still ten days of our holiday left after all,” he says as we lie abed, “and you know that it isn’t a precise calculation.”

“That’s true enough,” I admit grudgingly. “The variable are infinite, perhaps I should write a monograph upon the subject.”

Watson laughs. “Well, you’ve certainly conducted enough research.”

I rub his shoulder through his cotton nightshirt. “The most obvious factors are the amount of liquid consumed and how long one goes without voiding.   Yet it’s still a gambler’s game, I’ve wet myself after eleven hours and gone voluntarily after holding for twenty, one simply never knows the outcome.”

“You’d grow bored with it if was always a certainty,” says Watson quite correctly.

I adjust the feather pillow behind my head. “One thing is certain, I’ve never yet managed to hold my urine for a full twenty-four hours.” 

“The human body isn’t designed for such a feat of endurance, my dear, but you came close to achieving it tonight.”

“Bah, close isn’t good enough.” I press a kiss to his temple, breathing in the smell of his aftershave. “It’s something that I very much want to achieve even if I only ever do it once.”

“So try again,” says Watson, “but allow yourself a few days respite first.”

*

It is nine o’clock on a Thursday evening and the dregs of daylight are clinging to the horizon.  The chamber pot sits on the chest of drawers and I stand before it trying to squeeze out the last drops of my urine.  I jiggle from foot to foot  to shake loose any liquid that reminds inside me _.  Come on, come on, this is your last chance._ If everything goes to plan it will be this time tomorrow evening before I empty my bladder again.

“I don’t think that there’s anything left to come out,” says Watson.

I sigh and let go of my penis. “It seems that you’re right.”

He puts his arms around me. “Let’s go to bed then, an early night is just what the doctor ordered.”

It’s a prescription that I’m only too delighted to follow.  We make love tenderly and fall asleep before it is fully dark.

I drift towards wakefulness with the first glimmer of daylight.  Watson is snoring softly beside me and as I stretch out I become aware of a vague desire to urinate.  It is a distant pleasant little ache and I roll onto my back to savour the feeling. After a few moments I reach for my pocket watch and there is just enough daylight for me to see that it is just after four o’clock.  So it’s already seven hours since I relieved myself, but that’s nothing to me and I haven’t had anything to drink since then.  I realise that I am thirsty, so I sit up and pour myself a glass of water. Once I’ve drunk it I snuggle up to Watson and soon fall asleep again.

 _I want to urinate._   The sun is a golden annoyance and I curl up into a ball, trying to ignore it and the signals from my bladder.  It doesn’t like being squashed and I have to uncurl a few seconds later.  “What time is it?” I ask groggily.

“Twenty past six.” Watson kisses me on the mouth. “How are you this morning?”

“I want to pass water.”

“You know that you’re not allowed to do that,” says Watson mildly.

I pout. “But I want to go.”

“Then you’ll just have to hold it, won’t you?”  Watson’s fingers card through my hair.  “Does it feel nice, dearest?”

It does to me, perverse creature that I am.  The pulses and twitches of need are quite controllable, and each one sends a dainty thrill of sensation through my stomach and down into my penis.  I touch it lightly, brushing my fingers over the base where the feeling of pressure is located. “Yes, it does.” I take Watson’s hand in mine, “but it would feel even better if you were to hold my member.”

He obliges, curling his hand around me and rubbing my prick gently. Watson knows better than to bring me to orgasm when I’m holding my urine.  Once my muscles relax in the afterglow I’m bound to lose control, so that too is for later. However, I’m only too pleased to cause Watson to spend himself all over the sheets.

Bathing is a tantalising ordeal. I have to contend with the gush of water from the taps and then I have to control the urge to void into the warm, lapping water.  I tilt my head back and close my eyes in the swirling steam _.  It’s been ten hours, no wonder I want to go. Oh heavens, I want to urinate._

 I get out of the bath before I can succumb to temptation, dress quickly and go in search of Watson.  He has improvised breakfast on the terrace; half-burnt toast, ham and surprisingly well-fried eggs. 

“I’ll make a housewife of you yet,” I tell him.  He purposefully chose a house four miles from any other habitation and one without a live-in servant. 

Watson takes the jest in good part and pours me some tea from the big brown pot. “You must drink,” he says when he sees my doubtful expression.

My need to go has eased somewhat since I got out of the bath and I know that he’s right so I accept the cup, but I try to refuse when he presses a second upon me. “If I were permitted to urinate…”

“Perhaps I’ll consider it if you finish your tea.”  Needless to say Watson has no intention of allowing me to go, but I drink it down to the dregs anyway. 

The breakfast things are swept to one side in a jumble of plates and crusts. “Do you still need to pass water?” Watson asks in a conversational tone.

“Yes, of course.”

“Stand up, over there.” He points at a spot on the terrace. “Now undo your trousers and take your prick out.”  

I fumble with the buttons and although I know that this is a feign my body doesn’t. It believes that it’s about to go and the level of my urgency soars.  My prick is hot and heavy in my hand. “Watson?”

“Not a drop until I give you permission.”

I bite back a moan, resisting the longing to simply let loose.  _Christ, I can’t stand here like this_. My feet move restlessly and my prick twitches repeatedly.  _Stop it._ I’ve no intention of giving in, no matter how long Watson makes me stand in his absurd position.

Time drags past and eventually Watson gives a theatrical sigh. “I’m afraid I’ve changed my mind. Put it away, Holmes.”

Now I resist the respite I’ve been craving. “I can’t, not without going.”

“Haven’t I just told you that you’re not allowed to go?”

“Yes,” I say with ever show of sullenness although my prick is lengthening in my fist. My military doctor plays his part fearlessly and I adore it his unequivocal strictness.  Watson may be relied upon not to waver no matter how much I plead to be allowed to pass water.

He guffles “Then tuck it away while it’ll still fit into your trousers.”

I obey and the denial sends a fresh wave of need through me.  When I sit down again with my legs crossed Watson takes my hand across the table. “Well done, I know that wasn’t easy.” He kisses my hand. “Dearest Holmes.”

We fall silent. Watson’s gaze goes to the surrounding countryside, to the steep Welsh hill with their flocks of hardy sheep. Last time I was desperate we came across a ram urinating in a field and I almost went in my trousers.  I decide that sheep are to be avoided as it the brook that gushes and gurgles down in the dell.

“I thought that we could take a walk in a little while, down into the village by way of the old stone bridge,” says Watson. “That is if you’re up to the challenge?”

Of course I say that I am, so we set off at mid-morning.  Watson in plus fours and with a stout walking stick looks every inch the country gentleman. I have kept to my black suit for obvious reasons, not that I believe that I’m in any immediate danger of wetting myself.   Nevertheless I am, unsurprisingly, experiencing a considerable desire to urinate and the rutted road jolts my full bladder as we trek towards the bridge. It has rained recently and the rushing height of the brook draws a little gasp from me _.  Oh please, I want to go._ I leant on the bridge and squeeze myself between the legs. That helps a little, then Watson slips his hand in between me and the cold stone to cup my groin. “Better?”

I nod with my gaze locked on the waters below.

“We’ll come back the other way,” he promises.

The village is a collection of farm cottages, a Norman church, two small shops and a public house.  Watson buys newspapers, tobacco,  and a bottle of ink  from one of the shops.  Then we adjourn to the pub for luncheon, not that I want to eat.  I’m acutely aware of the weight of my bladder and I want to scream at the staff to hurry up. Don’t they know that it’s nearly fifteen hours since I urinated _?  I can’t wait another nine hours.  I just can’t. I’ll be lucky if I survive the trek back to the cottage._  My hand clenches on my thigh and I long to thrust it between my legs.

Watson leans close. “You can hold it,” he whispers.

I nod. There will be no surrender, either I will last the full twenty-four hours or I’ll wet myself trying, but I will not succumb to my urgency and urinate voluntarily.  “I won’t go,” I whisper back.

“Good fellow.” Watson finishes his coffee, but does not comment when I leave mine untouched.  “Let’s get home then.”

I’m very careful how I stand up, but everything holds together while we make our way out of the village.  Watson takes the fork in the road that bypasses the brook and I am grateful for it even though it will take us two hours to reach the cottage.  I take his arm and he matches his pace to mine.  He pats my hand. “You’re doing well, just keep on holding it.”

I try, but when we’re about half an hour from our destination I stumble to a halt.  “Watson, wait, I need to take my prick out.  I won’t go, but I just need to take it  out for a minute.”  It’s a risky move, but my clothing suddenly feels far too tight and constricting.

“You can get it out when we reach the cottage, but not in the middle of the road where anyone might see you.” Watson takes my hand. “ Come on, Holmes, don’t give up now.”

“I’m not, it’s just so uncomfortable.” I squeeze his hand. “I’m not going to urinate.”

“I believe that you don’t intend to, but if I let you expose yourself in the hedgerow can you promise me that you won’t have an accident?”

“No,” I unwillingly admit. I managed it on the terrace, but my desire to urinate is so much stronger now. If I stand in the undergrowth holding my penis I might well lose control.

“In that case the answer’s no”

My prick chaffs as we climb the hills to our temporary home and I’m desperate enough to dance from one foot to the other while Watson unlocks and then bolts the front door.  My eyes go to the hall clock and I groan. There are still another seven hours before I reach my goal. _Oh no, I can’t possibly wait that long. I want to go. I need to go now._

Watson cups my face in his hands and kisses my lips. “Go into the parlour and I’ll bring you your nightshirt.”

“I want to urinate!”

“Yes, I can see that you do and I realise that you want to go very badly indeed, but I just can’t permit it, my dearest.”

“Please, I have to pass water.”

“And so you shall, but not just yet.” Watson puts his arm around my waist and guides me an armchair next to the fire. “Now you sit tight and I’ll be back very soon.”

I grip the chair arm in one hand and hold myself tightly with the other, rocking back and forth in my urgency. _Hurry, Watson hurry,  I can’t – No. I will not urinate._ The pressure of my hand coupled with my resolution helps me maintain my control until Watson returns.

He helps me to undress, but  the instant my phallus is freed the urge to pass water becomes overpowering. I twist my legs together and cling to Watson’s forearm. “Oh God, I’m going to-”

“Hold it,” commands Watson.

 _I will not urinate. I will not urinate._  After a few seconds the spasm weakens and I take a shaky breath. “It’s all right  - for now anyway.”

Watson helps me into my nightshirt and leads me over to the sofa. “Lie down, it’ll take some of the pressure off and you look tired anyway. Why don’t you have a little nap?”

That suggestion fills me with alarm.  “I wouldn’t dare. I’d probably pass water in my sleep.”  

Watson drapes a blanket over me.  “Just lie quietly then.”  He kisses my forehead and then draws the curtains so that a soft dusk fills the room. I watch him pick up a book and settle next to the fire . Warmth is seeping into me and I remind myself sternly that I mustn’t go to sleep.

I’m in the middle of Piccadilly. It’s broad daylight. There are  people everywhere and I’m about to relieve myself. _I have to go. I have to piss._

“Oh God, God…” I grab my prick and squash it painfully in my fist, rolling over as I do so. “No!”  My bladder tightens again as I drag myself into a sitting position.  “Please, don’t let me wet myself!”

“Holmes…” Watson’s bending over me and I see how anxious he looks, but I lash out at anyway. “Why the blazes did you let me go to sleep?”

“You needed to rest and - ”

“And you’re a bloody fool!”   Another contraction claims me, but my anger gives me the strength to fight back.  “Oh lord…” I hang my head and gasp in some air.  Watson holds my shoulders and  eases me back onto the sofa.  I shut my eyes and  concentrate on  supressing my body’s urgent demands. 

My eyelashes flutter and I see Watson approach with a tumbler in his hand.  “Are you completely insane?” I  snarl. My hands are still clamped securely around my prick,  although  I  think, I hope,  that disaster has been averted.

“I want you to take a couple of sips to calm your nerves that’s all.”  Watson sits beside him and hold outs the glass.

The heat of the brandy does help to steady me and I take a little more than two sips before I hand it back to him.  “Thank you and I apologise.”

“There’s no need.” Watson puts his hand on my trembling knee. “What happened, my dear?”

“I had one of those dreams where I’m searching for a lavatory, but I can’t find one and I’m desperate, so I decide to urinate in Piccadilly Circus. And if I hadn’t woken up when I did… I was  right on the brink, practically going…”

“But you didn’t go, “ says Watson.  He sounds both pleased and  proud. “Well done, Holmes.”

“I didn’t want to be defeated , not like that,  but – Oh lord, it was so difficult to stop it.”  My stomach muscles are aching with the strain.  I turn my head, still trying to get my breath, and stare in horror at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Surely it’s not only four o’clock?”

“I’m afraid that it is,” says Watson gently. “You were asleep for about an hour and three-quarters.”

The reality of it crushes me. “Oh God, I’ll never be able to hold it for another five hours. It’s impossible. I’ll be watching that damn clock and-”

“Perhaps that’s where we went wrong before,” says Watson thoughtfully. He strokes my cheek. “Are you able to hold it for another five minutes, dearest?”

“Yes, I believe so.”  I desperately need to void,, but it no longer feels as if I’m about to wet myself.

“Excellent.” Watson gets up and turns the mantel clock to face the wall, “Let me worry about how much time there is left, you just concentrate on holding it for five minutes.”

“And then for another five?”  I grasp the trick even before Watson nods.

He comes back to me and clasps my hand between his own.  “Don’t think about the marathon, just pace yourself out , one step at a time and trust me to take care of everything else.”  Watson kisses my mouth. “I’ll look after you, my dear.”

It would be the tenderest of cruelties if I did not crave this desperation.  I began to play these games with myself months before Watson was corrupted by my deviant passions. Even my near-miss is thrilling in retrospect, although I was dreadfully afraid that the game was about to come to an ignanamous end when it occurred.   Nor do I think that I can wait another five hours to urinate, but I am determined to try, to fight the compulsion until the bitter end.  Not that the sensations are so bitter now in spite of the dull ache in my abdomen.  I have learnt to transmute the pain into pleasure and all the recent excitement has caused by phallus to stiffen.

The protrusion under my nightshirt has not gone unnoticed. “Enjoying yourself, Holmes?” asks Watson. It partly a jest and partly a request for confirmation that I am happy to continue.

“Yes,” I whisper before I put on my most pathetic expression, “but I want to urinate so much.”

Watson tuts impatiently. “Oh, don’t start all that again. I think that we’ve had more than enough drama for one night. There isn’t any point you harping on about it when you know you’re forbidden  to go.”

“I have to go.”

“Perhaps later,” says Watson briskly. “I thought that we’d play a game of chess in the meantime to take your mind off it.”

“Chess? I shall never be able to concentrate.”

“Oh, that’s all right. I don’t mind winning.”  Watson stands up with a cheerful smile and a challenge in his eyes. 

“Don’t be so certain that you will,” I respond. I don’t like to be beaten, not even by my beloved and how well he knows it.

He drags the sofa over to the fire, grunting with the effort, but I don’t dare offer to help even if I were so inclined.  Watson produces an ivory chess set and a box of peppermint creams.  Doubtless he procured then whilst I was sleeping and I’m sure that he also took the opportunity to visit the lavatory.  I wonder whether he has hidden a pot for me somewhere, but it’s better not to follow that train of thought. The knowledge that there is a receptacle to hand might well be my downfall.  

I choose the ebony black pieces and sit next to him on the sofa with my penis squeezed between my thighs and my legs firmly crossed.

“Let battle commence, “says Watson and so it does.

In many ways it’s a very ordinary chess match, but I wriggle about on the sofa, crossing and uncrossing my legs, and tucking my prick back between my thighs whenever it starts to slip free. _Knight, bishop, that was a cunning move. I mustn’t go. I mustn’t urinate.  If Watson makes a mistake…_ I cross my legs at the ankle as well as at the knee and lean back in an attempt to take some of the stress off my bladder.  _Sweet God, I want to piss. Move the bishop, damn you._

Watson sees his error at the last second and changes his move. His grins triumphantly.  “Now get out of that.”

It takes every ounce of will-power and concentration I process, but somehow I do much to his disappointment.  My chuckle turns into a gasp. “Oh lord, I need to go.”  I bend forward, clutching my stomach. “Please let me pass water.”

“Absolutely not.” Watson pushes the chess table to one side and a rook topples over. “Perhaps I should examine you through.  Can you lift your nightshirt up for me?”

Inevitably my wretched bladder takes that as an indication that it’s about to be emptied. I clamp down on the powerful urge and let my breath out cautiously, but it’s worth the effort when Watson kneels at my feet. He looks up at me with eyes that hold mere pinpricks of brown in their depths.  “I love you,” he says.  Watson lays his hand very lightly on the taut swelling just above my pubic hair. “Your abdomen’s very swollen, my dear, and very solid.”

“I want to piss,” I whimper.

“Hush, yes, I know that you do.  It’s such a beautiful thing…”  Watson caresses my bursting bladder, feather gentle, with fingertips and lips.  He kisses his way across the tight stretched skin and I groan when I am bereaved of his adoration.  “Please, can I?” he asks. I know what he wants and I nod my head.

He stands up and releases his thick prick from his trousers.  It is simply lovely, red and pink, with a thread of translucent fluid dangling from the tip. The sight of it brings me instantly back to full arousal.  I pull my nightshirt over my head and lie back on the sofa.  “Come here, dearest.”

Watson doesn’t need a second invitation.  He straddles the tops of my thighs and leans forward, grasping the sofa arm on either side of my head so that he won’t put any weight on me.  I crane my neck so that we can kiss and take his prick in hand.  Lying flat has eased the strain a little, but the tremors of urgency haven’t subsided.  “I need to go,” I murmur against his lips. “Please, Watson, I need to go so much.”  I rub the blunt, sticky head of his prick over my aching bladder. “Can’t you feel how full I am?”

He moans and his fingers dig into the sofa arm. “Oh good God…I’m going to mount you…afterwards…right here, on the floor…Oh…”  Poor Watson trying not to thrust into my abdomen and he arches his spine when his hips jolt forward, rutting in mid-air. “Inside you…I want to be inside you.”

I take pity on him and starting massaging the head of his prick, buffing it with my palm until it judders and spurts semen.  “Holmes!” Watson shakes and gasps through his orgasm, but he is mindful of me in the aftermath, hauling himself to one side before he collapse in a breathless heap. “Oh heavens…”  He laughs weakly and kisses my hand.

My own prick is still standing proud and Watson runs his finger down my length. “Can I take you in my month?”

“Go on.” I don’t have to tell him not to suck. Watson knows what’ll happen if he does and he’s as gentle as a lamb. He makes a ring of his lips halfway down my shaft.  My prick head is engulfed in a moist cavern and my own throaty sigh echoes in my ears.  He’s holding my pelvis down so that I can’t thrust. “Please…”  I’m aching, itching to spend myself and to wet myself.  I want to release my hot urine into his mouth, but I can’t. We’ve never agreed to such and thing and I have to hold it.  I crawl at his shoulder. “Please, I’m so desperate!” 

He kisses my turgid member as he releases it.  “You have to wait, dearest.” 

“I can’t wait!”

Watson spreads his hands. “Urinate then.”

“Bastard.” I clench my jaw and tighten all my muscles battling the craving to do just that. “For God’s sake help me to hang on.”

“I thought that you wanted to pass water,” says my demon in doctor’s clothing.

“No.” I shake my head. “Don’t make me go. I want to wait, but I don’t know if I can. It’s so terribly urgent…so arousing… and I don’t want to be defeated again. All this will have been for nothing if I can’t hold it to the end.”

“You only have to hold it for five minutes, remember?”  Watson gathers me into his arms. “Just five minutes, my love, while we have a cuddle and I read you a story.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not. “ Watson reaches for his book. “Lie quietly and listen to me.”

“It isn’t one of your sea stories, is it?” I say suspiciously.

“Of course not.” He kisses my brow and starts to read.

Nevertheless images of crashing waves fill my head, of torrential rain and the fast flowing brook; of my urine streaming over the sofa.  A bolt of desperation strikes me and I jiggle about, fighting to stay dry.  “Ahh…”

“Hush.” Watson strokes my hair and reaches down to pet my tormented penis.  “You can hold it. You’re strong and stubborn enough for a cartload of mules.”  He eases my foreskin down and then back up over my urine slit. “And you’re getting hard again. Now where were we?”

Watson reads and I find myself focusing on the familiar lilt of his voice rather than on the nonsensical story.  He makes me feel safe and his fingers even soothe the grinding tension at the base of my prick.  I hide my face in his neck and breathe in the scent of him.  Urgency racks through me and I stifle a whimper. “I have to pass water.”

“Not yet.” Watson kisses my temple and fondles my prick. “Do you like that?”

“Mmm.” My hips rock from side to side, moving both to keep my urine in and to simulate my considerable erection. “It’s delightful.”  Perhaps there ought to be a conflict between my lust and my desperation, but they are both consolidated in the pit of my stomach and I’m barely able to tell where one ends and the other begins.  For a few minutes I luxuriate in the more sensual aspects of my plight.  My pelvis jerks up in frustration when Watson stops masturbating me. “More - don’t stop.”

“Any much more and you’ll have an accident of one sort or another.”

Probably both. Watson’s right to stop, but it frustrates me.  My penis jerks up in response to a tight cramp inside me and I curse him vehemently.  Watson chuckles, not the least put out by my diatribe. "Have a little respect, Holmes, or I might decide not to allow you to urinate at all."

It's obviously an empty, impossible threat. "Don't be stupid."

“Don’t you take that tone with me.” Watson grips my chin.  “I don’t have to give you permission to go and God help you if you urinate without my consent.”  He gives me a little shake. “Hold it and keep a civil tongue in your head.”

His harshness only increases my excitement.  “Oh lord, I’m in such a state, just look at me.”  Beneath the hard curve of my bladder my prick is oozing clear fluid.  As we watch a thick globule of ejaculate appears and it’s followed immediately by a golden bead of urine.   I freeze in horror as it falls to the floor. _Oh God, I’m starting to go!_  The tension locks my muscles and I attempt to count slowly to twenty in my head. _One, two, three…_ _I won’t go - not another drop._ I get to eleven before a second droplet appears.  “Oh please, don’t let me piss.”

“You’re not.” Watson’s hand is on my bowed shoulder. “That’s nothing. You’ve dripped like that before when you’ve been very desperate.  Here, let me get rid of it for you.”  He dabs the wet spot away with his handkerchief.  “Last time you were dripping for hours before you finally lost control.”

Time, hours, I’ve lost track of both, but there’s one thing I’m certain of. “But it’s such a long time since I went, I haven’t been since yesterday.” I grab Watson’s forearm. “I haven’t been!”

“And you’re not going now.”

“I have to go.”  My hips rock forward. “Don’t you know how long it is since I went?”

“Indeed I do, to the minute in fact,” says Watson.

I stare at him. “Tell me.”

He brushes the back of his hand over my cheek. “It’s better if you don’t know how long you’ve got to wait.”

“What if I can’t wait?” I ask, appalled by the idea of losing my battle. “I’m afraid that I just won’t be able to hold it until the end.”  There’s another tremor in my bladder and I groan. “I’m so desperate.”

“I’m aware of that, but remember that you only have to hold it for five minutes.” Watson kisses my parted lips. “Just five minutes, my love.”

I jiggle about on the sofa, trying to keep my waters back. “Oh, God, let me up. I’ll do it if I stay still.”

The desperate need to empty my bladder compels me to move from sofa to bookcase, to fireplace and back again. It’s the only way I can fight the overwhelming urge to let go. Once I pause for a few seconds before the mottled mirror. I look debauched with my lips bitten red and my hair all dishevelled.   My abdomen’s distended and I have a substantial erection.  As I gaze at myself a drop of urine falls from the dark flushed tip of my member.  I’m losing five or six such drops every minute and my agitated pacing is leaving a criss-cross trail of wet spots on the carpet. 

I don’t care. All my frenzied efforts are concentrated on not voiding entirely. It would be so easy to surrender to my aching need, but I refuse to give up.  I rest my forehead on the mirror’s gilt frame and even the cold metal under my cheek makes me want to go. “Oh lord,  I have to piss.”  Out of the corner of my eye I see the brandy glass on the shelf and I groan out a laugh. “It’s the most ludicrous thing, Watson, but I’m actually thirsty.”

“Then you must have something to drink,” he replies and I curse myself for speaking out. Even the thought of liquid causes me hunch over with my legs tightly crossed.  He’s pouring it out. It’s trickling into the glass and I imagine my urine flooding out.  “Oh Christ, oh fuck…” My language has descended into the gutter.    “I can’t bloody wait!”

“Hold it, Holmes.”  Watson has that damn glass in his hand. He is flushed and aroused, and as steady as the Rock of Gibraltar.  “And drink this.”

“Go to hell, you moron.  I’m almost wetting myself without that.”  I’m still bent over and I force my erection between my crossed legs. “It’s very nearly – Oh God…” I compress my thigh muscles, squashing my prick.  “I won’t go. I won’t go.  Oh, ah…”

“It’s all right, my dearest, don’t get into a panic.” Watson rubs my bowed back. “Deep breaths and just focus on keeping dry. Hush, now, you know that you mustn’t let it out.”

“I have to. Please, Watson, please let me piss.”

“Drink up first and I’ll consider it.” 

“Nooo…” I whimper. “If you make me drink that then whatever minuscule chance I have is gone. My bladder can’t take any more, I can barely stop it emptying now.   I’m so very desperate and if I drink…I can’t. I just can’t.”

Watson moves to stand in front of me. He clasps my upper arms and I blink up at him from my crab like position. “Do you trust me?” he asks.

“Yes of course, but-”

“Then drink this water.”  He smiles. “I swear that it’ll make no difference to the outcome.”

My brain, fogged by desperation and crammed with visions of urination struggles to comprehend. I look into his eyes, but I fail to find the answer to the riddle there. _Riddle, piddle…in the nursery standing over a chamber pot, nanny’s angry because I won’t go. You’ll make a puddle, Master Sherlock. No, I won’t._  

“Holmes?” Watson offers me the glass.

Either he knows that  defeat is inevitable  or  I’m nearing the end of my ordeal and the water won’t go through me before  he finally allows me to urinate.  _Trust me he said. I do trust him. I love him._   This isn’t about whether I wet myself or not, it’s about my faith in my lover.

I drink the water and it runs like icy despair down my throat. It feels as if it’s gone straight into my bursting bladder, but that’s just my mind playing tricks on me.  I hobble a couple of steps and grab the back of the sofa when I’m almost crippled by a vicious spasm in my abdomen. “Ah, God…please, please let me go.”  I’m shaking with the strain of holding back and my resolution to wait wavers and crumples.  I look across at Watson . I’ve failed him, but  the pressure has become unbearable.  “I’m sorry.  I’m going to do it.”

“No!” He’s at my side in an instant, clasping my head in his hands. “You MUST hold it for another ten minutes,  that’s all the time there is left."

If I was broken before now I am completely crushed. “Don’t you understand that I…Oh God…that I can’t wait ten minutes? It might as well be ten years and – Oh, please no!”  I’m sobbing in despair. “I can’t hold it. I just can’t hold it!”

“Yes, you can.” Watson’s fingers are digging into my skull. “You’re holding it now, aren’t you? And you swore that you  would only go it if you wet yourself.  You’re not wetting and you’re so close to the finish line. Think how livid you’ll be with yourself if you give up now.” He smiles. “You’ll be unbearable for weeks and I’ll have to put up with your sulks.”  Watson glances over my shoulder. “Eight minutes, my love.”

Instinctively I try to  turn my head, but Watson holds me firmly in place. “Yes, I turned the clock around, only I want you to leave the countdown to me.  Just hold on, dearest, you’re almost there.”

“I’m almost pissing myself!” I squirm about, battling a merciless attack of urgency. “I have to go. I have to go. It isn’t a choice, it’s a necessity. I can’t delay it for another eight minutes.”

“Seven,” says Watson quietly.

“I need to go now.” Tears are running down my face and urine is dripping from my penis. “This is way, way beyond desperation. The pressure’s heinous, far worse than anything I’ve ever experienced.”  I’m frightened by the terrible intensity of my unrelenting urgency, but Watson’s eyes are compassionate _.  Oh God, seven minutes…I can’t wait… Watson won’t blame if I go, but I’ll l despise myself._  I clutch my prick in one hand and cling to Watson with the other. “For Christ’s sake help me. Please, please tell me how to hold it.”

He’s nonplussed for an instant and then his expression changes. “Pretend that you don’t need to piss”

“That is the most nonsensical – Oh no, please no….”  I cling to the ruins of my control. “It won’t work.”

“Have you got a better idea?” Watson touches his lips gently to my bleeding mouth. “Just six minutes and that’s nothing, not if you don’t want to go.”

This is insane. I’m dying to go, absolutely bursting. “I...help me.”

“Of course I  shall, so there’s nothing to cry for.” Watson wipes my face with his handkerchief. “Are you all right, my dear?”

“Yes,” I mumble, but I’m not. I’m not.

“Are you sure?” says my wicked Watson. “You seem very edgy, I wondered if you needed to pass water?”

“Oh God Ye -  I…I don’t want to go.”   Even the words on Watson’s lips, the very notion of passing water, cause a savage surge of urgency that forces me to bend and twist.  “I don’t need to go. There’s no need…I haven’t got to go.”

A fat drop of urine seeps out of my piss hole.  It falls away and is immediately replaced by another. “I don’t want to…”  When I pull away from Watson he is wise enough to let me go.  He straddles the sofa arm and his hand disappears into his trousers.  “Don’t forget to count,” I say with a grimace that’s meant to be a smile.

His eyes flick  to the mantelpiece behind me. “I won’t. Five.”

I can’t postpone pissing for another five minutes,  It just won’t wait. The pressure’s killing me and I hobble a few steps. “Oh…Ah…I don’t have to go.  I don’t need  to piss.”    _Now go to the privy, young man, before you have an accident. I don’t want to go.  Stuff and nonsense, why else would you be jiggling about like that?  I won’t go!_  “I don’t need the privy and you can’t make me go!”  My shout of defiance startles Watson and shocks me.  I blink at him. “How could I have forgotten?”

“Forgotten what?” he asks.

“When I was a boy I used to wait…hold it and swear that I didn’t want to piss even when I was obviously desperate. I would drive my nanny to distraction and – Oh fuck!”  A brutal spasm makes me gasp in pain, but I cling on wilful to the last.  It seems that I’ve ridden it through, but as I shift frantically from one foot to the other urine dribbles onto my thigh.   It’s no more than a thimble full, but I’m terrified that it’s a precursor to a flood.  “Oh no,  please…Christ, not yet.”

“Calm down,” Watson snaps and then he gentles his tone. “It’s all right, it’s stopped, you’ve stopped it.”

“I thought…I didn’t realise it was going to come out.”   My stomach aches abominably and I’m aware that tiny trickle was the herald of my ultimate defeat.  No matter how ferociously I battle to maintain control my body won’t be denied forever.  _It’s been forever, hours and hours._   I’m clinging on by a thread, but I won’t capitulate. “I don’t want to go. I don’t need to piss. I don’t need to piss.” My ragged litany is punctuated by cries of desperation.   _You’re going to wet yourself in a minute, Master Sherlock._

“I’m not going to wet myself. I’m not going to wet myself.” There’s a powerful, insidious ripple in my rigid bladder and I feel my urine trying to force its way out.  “Please God, please don’t make me wet myself now.”

“Wait,” Watson growls.  He’s ruddy with arousal and his prick is jutting out shamelessly.

I want to touch him, but all I can do is writhe in a doomed attempt to retain my urine. “I can’t wait!! For Christ’s sake get me a pot!”

“In ninety seconds,” says Watson breathlessly. He’s  jerking  his prick.

“I CAN’T WAIT.” I trash about, banging my hip on the table and choking on my tears. “Please, please get me a pot. Nanny will be furious if I go on the floor…please…”  My eyes are squeezed shut and I’m standing with one leg twisted around the other like a demented stork.  “Oh God, I can’t help it. I’m going to piss myself.”

Watson clasps my shaking shoulders. His hands are warm and steady. “Turn around and look at the clock.” 

I whimper. “Can’t…I don’t dare move…” Then I shuffle round in the circle of his arm, but I don’t open my eyes.  “I can’t stop it…any second now…” 

“Let go of your prick,” says Watson and I do because it doesn’t matter anymore.  Something cold and smooth touches the underside of my penis and my eyes fly open.  It’s a huge glass jar and Watson pushes its wide neck up over my prick until the rim fits snugly against my groin.  “You can go, my love. It’s three minutes past nine and you have my blessing.”

I’m crying in anticipation of blessed relief and I’ve barely enough breath to curse him for those three extra minutes. “Oh God, Christ…”  For a few seconds nothing happens. Then I gripped by an excruciating cramp and a jet of urine shoots out of my prick.  The pain makes me clamp down instinctively and it slows to a trickle for an instant before it becomes a massive gush. “Oh, it hurts…”

“Hush.” Watson turns me slightly so that he can rest the jar on the table. He grasps its neck with one hand and rests the other on my swollen abdomen. “It’ll feel wonderful soon.”  His lips touch the nape of my neck and his erection brushes against my buttocks. “You’re going, my dear, you’re pissing for the first time in twenty-four hours.”

“Good...so good…”  The pain is ebbing away to be replaced by a euphoric sensation of relief. “It’s so good to go…heavenly…blissful.”  My prick’s jerking spasmodically inside the jar, spraying urine all over the glass walls. It’s already a quarter full and the torrent isn’t lessening at all. “There’s so much…”

“I know. I’ve never seen you go quite like this before.”  Watson’s voice is gravelly with lust. “God, I want to fuck you.”

“On the floor - if I ever stop pissing.”  Despite my utter desperation I’m stunned by how much urine I’ve been holding. I jolt as another sensation assails me, a thrill of pleasure so powerful that it steals my breath away. “Ah, oh, it’s ecstasy. Good, so good…”  The feeling rockets towards a crescendo and I grab Watson’s arm. “Oh Christ, I’m going to have an orgasm.”

“You can’t-” Watson begins, but his medical textbooks can go to damnation because whilst I’m still pissing I’m experiencing the most powerful and prolonged climax of my life. Thick semen pulses against the sides of the jar and slides down to mingle with my urine.  I’m bent double and my whole body’s convulsing with the intensity of the contractions.  “John!” He’s holding me up and I’m whimpering through the aftershocks while the rest of my urine trickles out.

Watson caps the jar with trembling hands and pushes me unceremoniously down onto the carpet.  My knees thump into the floor and residual urine runs down my thighs.

“Sweet heaven,” Watson murmurs.  I brace myself on my hands when he bows over my back, parting my buttocks with frantic haste. “I’ve got to get inside you.”   He mounts me and his prick bumps thickly into my anus.  Watson swears and penetrates me on the second attempt.  His prick is slick with unguent, but there is still a moment of pain before his pistoning organ strikes my prostrate.   Watson’s hands are clawing into my hips as he sodomises me and we’re both making enough noise to ensure a prison sentence if the nearest neighbours weren’t four miles away. 

He’s too overwrought for it to last long, moaning and shuddering against my back as he thrusts erratically.  My penis curves up under my stomach, so eager and hard that I might almost have imagined that first ecstatic orgasm.  “Close…” Watson groans into my neck a split second before he tears himself apart.  I spend myself with him, grinding my hips and crying out in joy as the spasms rip through me again.

We collapse onto the carpet in a spent, entwined heap. Watson hugs me and rests his forehead on mine. “Thank you.” He kisses my brow and then he nuzzles my ear. “Just a smidgeon over two and a half pints.”

I hadn’t even realised there was a measure on the jar, but I’m sure that it’s the most I’ve ever held. “No wonder I was so desperate.”  My back and stomach ache and there’s another sensation at the base of my exhausted prick. “It’s absurd, but I feel as if I want to go again.”

Watson stirs himself.  “There must have been some urine left in your bladder.”  He nudges me. “Sit up, dear.”

I haul myself up so that I’m sitting with my back resting on the sofa.  Watson reaches up and grabs the brandy glass.  “See if you can fill this for me.” 

It’s only a gill glass, but  I doubt that my body can produce that much piss.  “I’ll try.”

“Good lad.”  Watson lowers his head and kisses the tip of my prick.  Then he sits back on his haunches and holds the tumbler in place. “Go on,  my love.”

 I piss easily this time; a swirl of golden urine fills the glass and cascades over Watson’s hand before I’m finished.  He sets it aside and then he shocks me by licking his index finger clean.

“Watson!”

He looks a bit embarrassed.  “I was curious and there’s no harm done. It’s sterile when it leaves the body and frankly rather tasteless.”  Watson dips his finger in the glass and offers it to me. “See what you think.”

How can I refuse? Besides it’s fascinating and erotic to taste my own urine on his skin, even if it is rather bland. “It would benefit from an appetiser,” I say.

Watson chuckles. “I know the very thing.”  He gets up and tips a measure of my urine into a second glass then he tops both up with brandy.  “Drink it while it’s fresh,” he instructs me when he settles back down at my side.  We clink our glasses together.  “Your good health, old chap.”

I half expect to gag on it, but it only tastes like watered down brandy. The excitement, the decadence, is in knowing what it really is and in tasting it on Watson’s lips when I kiss him.  “We can call it two and three quarter pints with that,” I murmur.

He laughs. “Show off.”  Watson smooth’s back my tousled hair. “Bath and bed, you look exhausted.” He hesitates. “You wanted to go in my mouth earlier, didn’t you?”

I remember how it felt to be held between his lips with his breath gusting gently over my prick head. “Yes, but I was very desperate by then. I really could have gone in the middle of Piccadilly Circus.”

Watson chuckles again. “We had better give that one a miss in daylight anyway, but I’m not adverse to the other.”

I can’t quite meet his eye. “I’ll want to go again in a few hours.”

“Not first thing in the morning at least let me get some breakfast first.”

“Honestly, Watson, you’re always thinking of your stomach.”

“Or of yours.” He splays his fingers across my now flat abdomen. “This is the most precious thing and I love you dearly.”

I cannot possibly be blushing, not after the depths we have plumbed.  “Don’t be silly.” Then I relent and tell him that I love him more than words can say.

We embrace and go up to bed with our arms wrapped around each other, leaving the chaos of my victory for another day.

 

 


End file.
